


you're timeless like the sun, timeless like the moon baby

by littlethiefs



Series: Ghost of a Renegade [3]
Category: The Daevabad Trilogy - S. A. Chakraborty
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, but sometimes i feel a little something something for daradhiru, danahri is the main pairing, did everyone try the chicken? i thought the chicken was lovely, he's tried to kill them too, i am a ride or die danahri, now imagine dara at a party with people who have tried to kill him multiple times, the rest are established side pairings, third part to my post-eog series, you could read it on its own but some things won't make sense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:54:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27039772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlethiefs/pseuds/littlethiefs
Summary: Post Empire of Gold. It's Nahri's birthday, and she has friends coming over. Dara's invited too. He's not thrilled.
Relationships: Darayavahoush e-Afshin & Muntadhir al Qahtani, Darayavahoush e-Afshin/Nahri e-Nahid, Elashia/Razu Qaraqashi, Jamshid e-Pramukh/Muntadhir al Qahtani, Zaynab al Qahtani/Aqisa
Series: Ghost of a Renegade [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1901329
Comments: 3
Kudos: 18





	you're timeless like the sun, timeless like the moon baby

**Author's Note:**

  * For [astarisms](https://archiveofourown.org/users/astarisms/gifts), [SparrowPixie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SparrowPixie/gifts).



> Gifting to Astarisms because she waited so long for this, and to SparrowPixie because she's too sweet and I need to catch up on all her brilliant fics asap. :(

Dara was in the kitchen, bent over a pot of soup when Nahri shuffled in from the bedroom, her eyes still heavy with sleep. She’d gotten home late last night from the hospital after a Tukharistani woman, in a burst of irritation, had cursed a group of eight boys to sprout purple horns. She was stifling a yawn when she spotted him holding a dumpling up on his wooden spoon and greeted him with a fond smile. “You’re up early.”

“I am not,” he said, plopping the dumpling back into the broth. He’d hand-made them himself for the first time and putting them in the broth had seemed like a good idea; by the Creator, Jaleh was rubbing off on him with her culinary experiments. “It is afternoon. You sleep like the dead.”

“You would know,” she grinned and Dara shot her a scowl. “You have flour in your hair.” Reaching up, she dusted the white powder from his curls. When she was done, he pushed her away with one hand.

“Stay away from my soup, thief,” he admonished, before returning to observe his stuffed pastries bobbing in the broth. With a laugh, she retreated towards her couch, falling upon the cushions with a sigh. 

“Ya, Dara, look at the mess we’ve made of the place.” He looked up to survey the area; her shoes and his weapons were scattered haphazardly around the room, his jacket and her chador discarded near the door. Books were strewn across the floor and table, old scrolls lying open on the couch. They’d been reading through them for any information on slave vessels or how to pass the ring between two Nahids - well,  _ Nahri _ had been reading. The ancient Divasti still proved too elusive for Dara, him having learned the modern form of the language primarily from a child. “I do have people coming over later today.” 

“And why do you have people visiting?”

Nahri shrugged. “It’s my birthday.” Dara’s spoon dropped from his hands into the pot, and he turned to face her, too startled to say anything. Her  _ birthday _ ? He flushed, embarrassed that he’d had no idea, nor had he ever thought about it. When he was a child, birthdays were not fussed over, and he had never celebrated his own. Suleiman’s eye, he did not even know when he’d been born. Some time in the winter, he remembered… his mother used to joke that the Creator had imbued him with his hot-headedness to make up for it.

“I- I did not know, my apologies,” he stammered, hurrying over to her. She peered at him, a sparkle of amusement in her black eyes.

“Relax. It’s not my  _ real _ birthday,” she said. “A few years ago, Fiza insisted that I assign one to myself since I didn’t know what the date was, and I picked the first day that came to mind, that’s all. Too bad she’s out on the high seas this year.” He felt himself smile at that, glad that she had people around her who cared enough to indulge her in things as ordinary as birthdays. “Anyway. I’m having a party. This evening.”

Dara looked around the room again, mentally noting how long it would take them to clean the place up. He didn’t have enough time to cook an entire feast by hand, but he could conjure something up, and then he’d slip out… go somewhere to pass the time while Nahri spent her day with her friends. Perhaps Mishmish could keep him company.

“Very well,” he said, gathering several books in his hands. “We will eat, and then we can clear the mess, and you can tell me what food I should make.” Nahri was looking at him with that smile, the one that creased the corners of her eyes and made his stomach lurch as if he were an infatuated boy. Ah, but perhaps he was. Getting to his feet, Dara stacked the books carefully on her bookshelf before making his way back to the stove. “If you do not like my soup, lie to me and say you do.” 

*

Dara straightened the cushions on the back of the couch, then looked around appreciatively at Nahri’s home. Bronze platters he’d conjured sat in the kitchen, topped with Daeva and Egyptian food, accompanied by bottles of grape and date wine. Floating lanterns hovered in the corners, bathing the room with a soft, orange glow. The sun had set and the windows were open; despite the drawn curtains, a pleasant breeze drifted into the room, caressing his warm skin. Walking over to Nahri’s bedroom, Dara knocked softly before opening the door and letting himself in.

She was standing with her back to him, her hair brushed over a shoulder as she attempted to clasp a gold necklace around her throat. Dara’s heart jumped to his throat as he took in the black gown she wore, threaded with gold, pearls beading its hem. Creator, would he ever grow accustomed to this? This life where the first and only woman he’d loved was well and truly his? Where he could walk freely into her room after spending the whole day doing the most ordinary, most mundane tasks, flitting around each other in a synchronized rhythm as if they’d had years getting used to each other’s presence... 

Swallowing, he stepped closer and took the clasp from her hands, his fingers brushing against hers. Deftly, he snapped the clasp shut, then pressed his lips to the nape of her neck. Nahri shivered under his touch before turning swiftly around and resting an arm on each of his shoulders. “You are breaking my heart, Banu Nahida.” 

“It’s about time someone has the effect on you that you have on everyone else, horrible man. I’m almost tempted to call this whole thing off and lock ourselves in our bedroom. What do you say?” She raised an eyebrow at him in challenge, and he felt himself flush. 

“Is it  _ our _ bedroom already?” Before she could respond, there was a knock at the front door. Nahri pulled away from him with a sigh, taking a heavy gold chador from the bed and draping it over her hair. 

Dara was already halfway to the open window, ready to slip out, when she snapped, “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Away,” he said, baffled. Nahri snapped her fingers and the window banged shut with finality as Dara began to realize, with utter horror, that she meant for him to stay. Here. With her  _ friends _ . “Have you lost your mind?” He asked, aghast. “They all hate me!”

“Good thing it’s my birthday, and I get to make the decisions,” she said, opening the bedroom door while Dara scrambled away from the window. “You could conjure up something nice to wear for yourself, but you’re not leaving my sight tonight.” She clicked the door shut behind her. He heard her footsteps before she answered the door, other voices meeting with hers in happy greeting. 

As Dara listened, he sank to the bed, unable to quite believe what he’d gotten himself into. A feast? In this tiny house with Nahri’s friends? Most of whom had tried to kill him, and some he’d tried to kill himself, one he’d succeeded in killing before the marid got to him! He wondered who was on the other side of the door right now. This would be a disaster. He eyed the window - nothing had ever looked more appealing to him, but then he took a deep breath, steadying himself. She would be upset if he left after she’d asked him to stay. He did not want to see her upset at something he’d done… not again.

Dara straightened and got to his feet. He’d faced down and killed an ifrit. The marid and peri feared him enough to constantly plot his death, and he was the most powerful daeva to have walked the face of the earth since Suleiman had cursed his people.

He could handle a damned  _ party _ .

When he was done with himself, he wore a dark jacket that fell to his knees, its collar shimmering with the colors of a fire even as smoke curled up into his hair from it. Shadows swirled at the hem of his jacket. Dara ran a hand through his hair before steeling himself and opening the door. When he entered into the foyer, he was met with a large group of people, cramped comically inside Nahri’s home. At the sight of him, all the happy chatter immediately died, and Dara grimaced. Nahri walked over to him with a reassuring smile, sliding her hand in the crook of his arm as Dara surveyed the group in front of him. 

The marid prince was here - as Dara had known he would be - looking as disapproving as ever, sipping from a glass of tamarind juice. Beside him sat the princess, looking resplendent in a bright green gown, a matching headscarf dotted with jewels wrapped over her hair. Zaynab al Qahtani appraised him curiously, then sat back with a bemused expression like, if nothing, she would enjoy the drama. Beside her sat her sullen, Geziri guard - the warrior woman named Aqisa whose hand had immediately gone to her dagger, he did not fail to notice. Jamshid e-Pramukh stood by the door, looking unsurprised but wary, with the emir standing beside him, Muntadhir’s hand wrapped around a little boy’s. Ehsan, Dara remembered: Jamshid - and the emir’s - son. And in the kitchen, two women who beamed at him, their emerald green eyes identical to his, Razu and Elashia’s perhaps the only  _ truly _ friendly faces in the room.

Dara swallowed and looked down at Nahri, feeling the silence stretch impossibly on. Until Jamshid stepped forward and proclaimed, “Well, what a nice surprise!” He came to stand on Dara’s other side, clapping him on the back, offering him a small smile.

“I was clearly foolish to think we had finally rid ourselves of you, I see,” the emir spoke up, narrowing his eyes at Dara, who heard Zaynab snort into her cup. He bristled, but Nahri placed an arm across him.

“Leave him alone, Muntadhir,” she said simply. “He’s not here to cause trouble. He is important to me, and I want him here.” The bluntness with which she said it, her tone of voice a challenge to anyone who would object, made Dara want to take her into his arms and kiss her for the entire world to see. Instead, he took her hand in his and gave it a little squeeze before letting it go. Muntadhir rolled his eyes, then went to pour himself a glass of wine.

The tension seemed to break ever so slightly, and Zaynab turned to speak with her brother. Nahri patted Dara’s arm before she glided gracefully away to host. “She’s reckless,” Jamshid muttered under his breath and Dara nodded.

“Either that, or this was some elaborate ruse to trick me into a sense of comfort before I am executed.”

“Even she isn’t that good of a conwoman,” Jamshid laughed, the sound loosening some of the anxiety bubbling within him. Dara smiled back at him before holding out a hand, which Jamshid shook good-naturedly.

“It’s good to see you, Pramukh.” Jamshid set off behind Nahri, squeezing into the small kitchen with her where she was whispering urgently to Muntadhir. Ever the helpful brother, Dara thought, before he felt someone tap his shoulder. He turned to look into a pair of green eyes and warmth flooded him upon seeing perhaps two of the only friends he’d made in Daevabad all those years ago.

Elashia beamed at Dara by Razu’s side, her open, kind face reminding Dara of that agonizing night he’d spent in a chest of art supplies, an iron bullet in his shoulder. The two women standing before him had saved him, that night having changed the entire course of his life, beginning with when he’d looked Manizheh in the eye and lied to her about not knowing where Zaynab al Qahtani was. Even as Dara’s eyes flickered towards the princess, he bowed before Razu and Elashia, bringing his hands together in the daeva greeting. 

“I never thought I’d see you again, Afshin,” Razu said as Elashia reached out to pat Dara’s arm kindly.

“Dara,” he corrected gently. “And unfortunately, it seems as if I am a thorn in all your sides. Try as you may, it is hard to shake me off.” Razu smirked, then held out one of the two glasses of wine in her hands, and Dara took it gratefully. 

“Banu Nahri has told a select few of us what you have been up to,” she said as Elashia quirked her head to one side, appraising Dara with a fondness he did not deserve.

“Ah, yes. I do love committing myself to seemingly impossible tasks.”

“Those are the ones most worth doing, are they not?” Dara gave Razu a soft smile just as she raised her glass to him, Elashia following suit. “To you, Dara.” Abashed, he mirrored them.

“To freedom,” he said, before taking a sip.

*

As the night wore on and Dara’s glass remained perpetually full, his body began to thrum with a pleasant buzz, the tension in his limbs melting away as he grew more comfortable. He watched Nahri flit around her home, engaged in conversation with the princess at one moment, before turning to laugh at a joke Razu had told. And although this was not a place where Dara felt like he belonged, although he longed to take her hand and disappear beyond the veil to a valley between tall peaks, the sounds of rushing water echoing in the empty spaces, he felt content that she was happy. She deserved that, at the very least, after everything she’d been put through - after everything he’d put her through.

But even then, there was only so much conversation and company he could take after spending years in quiet solitude, especially when he was acutely aware that everyone in this room knew of his crimes, and blood was all they saw when they looked at him. Dara needed a break. He downed the rest of his wine, placing the glass on the floor beside him, and got unsteadily to his feet. He slipped inside their room and collapsed onto his back with his eyes closed.

He hadn’t been there long when he heard a  _ thrum _ that sounded a lot like the sound a bowstring makes when it’s released -- coming from Nahri’s back garden. Dara sat up immediately, flames already dancing in the palms of his hands as he stalked to the window. Peering outside, he saw that they weren’t in fact under attack; rather, Jamshid and Muntadhir’s son was holding Dara’s silver bow, idly playing with its string. Dara did not know when Ehsan had left the party to go outside, let alone when he’d grabbed Dara’s bow from beside the house’s entrance, but he was already slipping out of the window to join him. Ehsan looked up, startled to see Dara stumble ungracefully from the window. By the Creator, he couldn’t hold his wine like he once could.

“Has Nahri been teaching you how to steal things without people noticing?” He asked, leaning against the wall. The night was cool, a breeze cooling Dara’s flushed cheeks. Ehsan blanched at the question, immediately holding out the bow. “I am not cross,” Dara laughed, pushing the bow back towards the boy. “But what use is a bow without arrows?” With a snap of his fingers, rubber-tipped wooden arrows popped into existence between them.

Ehsan looked at him warily, before bending down and taking one of the arrows into his hands. Quicker than Dara could have predicted, the boy had notched the arrow and pulled the bowstring tight, then swiveled around looking for something to strike. A predicament, indeed. With another snap of his fingers, Dara conjured an array of glass bottles, held up a finger to Ehsan, then hurried off to place them in various parts of Nahri’s garden before making his way back to the boy who was looking rather excited. The garden wasn’t a big space, but it would do for an impromptu archery session, he supposed.

“Go on,” Dara said, crossing his arms across his chest. Ehsan notched an arrow again, this time letting it fly towards the nearest bottle. The arrow struck the bottle clean in the middle and it shattered with a satisfying clatter. Ehsan had already fired off another arrow with ease, which also landed true to its mark. Dara let out a low whistle. “You are very good.”

“Thank you,” Ehsan beamed, looking proud of himself. “Baba and Abba taught me.” But of course a child with Muntadhir and Jamshid as his parents would be an excellent archer. He remembered too well the pain in his wrist when Jamshid had impaled an arrow through it, and the confident precision with which the emir had wielded a bow while Dara had pulled himself out from under a pile of rubble. 

Ehsan continued to make quick work of the bottles until only two were left. They were the furthest away, and they were the hardest targets. Dara had placed one half-hidden behind a tree and another directly behind the first. The boy hesitated, his eyebrows drawn in a frown over his eyes.

“You can break them both with a single arrow if you do it right,” Dara offered and Ehsan’s frown deepened. He notched an arrow and pulled the bowstring back, the silver glinting beneath the moonlight. He let the arrow fly, but it simply bounced off the tree trunk, having missed its mark by a mere inch. Ehsan tried twice more, varying his positions while he made his attempts. On the second attempt, he managed to break the first bottle, but the one behind it remained. Dara reconjured the broken battle immediately.

“This is hard,” Ehsan said, but instead of sounding frustrated, he sounded curious. Dara smiled, ruffling the boy’s hair before sinking to the ground, belly down. He motioned for Ehsan to follow, who obliged. Dara pointed straight at the bottles.

“Sometimes, when the angle is difficult, it is best to bring yourself to the same level as your target. This way, you are not considering multiple dimensions of your shot.” Ehsan seemed to understand, and scooted closer to Dara on his belly until he was facing the bottles head-on. “You must hit the first in the center with enough force that its force, in turn, will break the one behind it. But while using your head,” Dara prodded Ehsan’s temple, “you must also just  _ look _ and let your instincts lead your limbs,” The boy nodded intently, then took aim. He missed, but by a hair’s breadth. Dara held his breath as Ehsan pulled back his next arrow--

“Where on earth have you been?!” The boy lost his focus and the arrow flew wide, and they both turned to see Muntadhir standing in the garden’s wooden gate. 

“Here,” Ehsan said innocently and Dara stifled a laugh, rising to his feet and dusting off his clothes. “I was bored, Abba, and Dara came to play with me.” The emir narrowed his eyes at Dara, appraising him with open hostility. Turning his gaze back to his son, Muntadhir’s gaze instantly softened, the difference so stark that it took Dara aback.

“Alright, keep playing.” The emir said, offering Ehsan a smile, who immediately resumed his attempts at hitting his targets. Dara leaned back against the wall, dreading the fact that Muntadhir was now making his way to him. And he had been having such a nice night. Muntadhir crossed his arms and stood with his back pressed against the wall. “I have been called many things, but never a bore. Although, I don’t blame my thirteen year old son for choosing to keep company with you instead of other adults, given that your intellect is equivalent to that of a child’s.”

“Do shut up, emir,” Dara drawled. “Conversing with you requires a certain level of drunkenness that I have not yet reached.”

“Perhaps I would feel the same way if I were speaking with the man who’d orchestrated my literal murder, but alas, I will never know. You, on the other hand, won’t stay dead, God knows why.” Muntadhir said, his voice entirely even, as if they were discussing the weather.

“If it makes you feel better, you succeeded when so many could not. I have been struck down thrice: once by an ifrit, who your kind fear so much that Suleiman erected a veil to keep them out of Daevabad. The second time by a marid, who are considered gods in their own right. And the third time by a Geziri prince with a mind too sharp for his own good.” Dara turned to face the emir, who was looking back at Dara with a glint in his eye.

Muntadhir smirked. “Perhaps I should be the one they hail as a hero in the streets of Daevabad, then.” Dara’s mouth pulled upward in a humorless smile, before they dissolved into a long silence, watching Ehsan attempt to hit his target. “Jamshid told me you spoke to him in Zariaspa,” Muntadhir finally said.

“He is a good man.” Dara said, then continued because he couldn’t help it. “Far better than you.”

“I don’t dispute that. The Nahids do have a way of choosing people that aren’t good for them, it seems.”

“Just these Nahids,” Dara muttered.

After a long moment, Muntadhir spoke again. “She was a monster. My father was a tyrant, but Manizheh was a monster.”

“I am aware. She enslaved me, remember?”

“Took you a while to catch on. Though I suppose we’ve established you’re not the smartest. I cannot believe  _ you’re _ the one who out-talked her in the end.”

Dara clenched his fists at his side. It wasn’t so much what the emir said as it was the way he said it, with an easy nonchalance and a comfortable acceptance that Dara was beginning to envy. “I have never wanted to punch anyone more than I want to punch you right now.”

“Not even my brother?” Dara cocked his head, considered the question, then gave a grunt of concession. Silence, followed by a loud shatter as Ehsan’s arrow finally landed in the precise spot. He gave a whoop of delight, and Dara brought his hands together in applause.

“I suppose since Jamshid and his sister like you, I should play nice and apologize for killing you, even though I half-wish I could do it again to see if it’ll stick this time.” Muntadhir offered as if it were a favor.

“I deserved it,” Dara shrugged. “And she cut out your eye, so truthfully, I would consider us even.”

“I got over the eye.”

“I got over the death.” Dara glanced at the emir and noticed for the first time the intricate gold embroidery on the patch of velvet covering Muntadhir’s eye-that-no-longer-was. He laughed, shaking his head. “The patch suits you, emir.” 

The rakish charm that Dara had observed from the first second he’d laid eyes on Muntadhir now crossed the emir’s face, who grinned. “Of course it does, Afshin. Everything suits me.” 


End file.
